


The Dead Port of Stars

by BumBoots



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22858486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BumBoots/pseuds/BumBoots
Summary: In the cold of Martinaise, you can't be a detective missing a right shoe.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	The Dead Port of Stars

The district of Martinaise was always cold. When the sun set and the temperature fell, not even the toughest residents could stand staying outside in the frigid air for long. The drizzle that had been falling since morning was now a slow and steady snow. The tiny flecks shimmered as they passed through the dim light illuminating the back-lot of the Whirling-in-Rags Hotel. A dead tree with bare branches reaching up towards the night sky was the only landmark amongst mud and sewer drainage. A dockworker’s loading belt dangled from one of the tree’s low hanging branches.

The belt had served as a surprisingly sturdy makeshift noose. It held strong for seven days as it carried the weight of a hanged man. For seven days the residents of Martinaise averted their gaze as the dead man festered and bloated. For seven days the only people who paid attention to him were spiteful children throwing stones at his corpse, and thieves who stole his clothing and affects piecemeal at night. Now with the noose snapped, he laid inelegantly atop the freezing mud, stripped bare of all worldly possessions aside from a pair of expensive, white armored boots, which had proven too difficult to scavenge while he was suspended.

In the darkness a passerby might have mistaken his corpse for a particularly devoted stargazer. But only dead, unseeing eyes stared up at the night sky. His icy body welcomed the white specks that fluttered down to rest on his naked form—as light and downy as feathers. Across his chest was an intricate tattoo in blue and white ink. It stretched like a map of ports and harbors. The pattern of white dots were bright shining stars against the dark blue. They hadn’t lost their luster yet. The decay around them made them even more poignant.

Across the yard a disheveled, middle-aged man emerged from behind a broken fence near the street adjacent to the hotel. He looked around the lot to make sure he was alone then made his way towards the corpse lying in the mud. He stopped at the body and stared at it for a moment in apprehension, tapping his green snakeskin shoe on the frozen mud. His right foot was woefully bereft of footwear. The only thing protecting it from the cold was a worn sock with a hole in the heel.

In the dim fluorescent light, the pallor of his skin seemed similar to the sickly green hue of the cadaver. His eyes were bloodshot, and his facial hair only partially hid a face that was bloated and red. The telltale sign of someone who drank with exuberance and in abundance.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but a sudden lump in his throat grasped the words before they could escape his mouth. The tie knotted around his neck suddenly felt tight. Too tight. He tried to adjust it.

The smell from the corpse had waned as the air had grown colder. The man could stand near it now without the urge to wretch, unlike earlier that morning when he and his partner had surveyed the scene. The start of a murder investigation that was seven days too late.

The man was a detective, at least everyone told him that. Truth be told—and he told it a lot—he couldn’t even remember that he _was_ a detective. But everyone said it. Even Lieutenant Kitsuragi, his partner, told him he was. So it must be true.

But what he was about to do didn’t seem very detective-like.

“I’m sorry, but I need those boots.” He spoke so softly that it could have been the wind.

_It’s okay_.

“No it isn’t,” he replied. Was it a reply? To whom? “I didn’t know if I was the kind of person to steal from a dead man. I’m sorry to find out that I am.”

The corpse couldn’t shrug in understanding. The ice and rot that filled its body kept it stuck to the ground. Motionless.

“I-uh-couldn’t find my other shoe,” he mumbled. “Lost it somewhere. Can’t for the life of me remember where.”

_Don’t need to explain yourself to a corpse. I’m dead you know_.

The man grimaced. “I know.”

He shuffled his feet back and forth again in a moment of indecision before fishing out a half empty pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He took one out and lit it. The brief flash of light from the lighter made him squint. His first drag was slow and long. He looked down at the dead man. The blue, contorted face seemed to look up at him almost longingly.

After a moment of thought, he took out another cigarette and lit it. Then he squatted low and carefully placed the cigarette between swollen, rotten lips.

The detective half-expected those festered lips to pucker and find better purchase on the cigarette, but there was no movement. No grateful inhalation, nor a satisfied breath out. The smoke from the cigarette merely coiled up lazily into the night sky.

“It’s not a fair trade. But I can’t offer you more than that for now.”

_No worries. I was a smoker, you know. Started young. Girls love smokers_.

The detective harrumphed, then turned his attention to the dead man’s feet. He inspected the boots for a moment before experimentally tugging on them. They didn’t come off. He could pull harder, but he was afraid if he put too much force into it, the decayed joints would peel and part away from the mass of flesh they were connected to.

_Twist ‘em a bit. Pull ‘em off one by one_.

“Ah.” The detective twisted gently. He felt the boot resist, but then the pressure ebbed, and with a wet ‘thok’ it gave way and slipped off of the cadaver’s foot. The detective inhaled with excitement, but quickly stifled it as a fresh wave of decaying funk wafted up from the boots interior. It was beyond foul. Bits of pale, slimy flesh still clung to the edges of the boot where the rotting leg had rested. It would need to be boiled and cleaned before it could be worn again. The detective made quick work of the second boot.

_Make good use of them. Better than me_.

Once finished, the detective bundled up the expensive armored boots in a used towel from his hotel room. It didn’t dampen the smell, but at least he wouldn’t be walking around with stolen goods in full view. If he had any more reputation to tarnish, that would do the trick in a heartbeat.

The corpse had shifted from his efforts to get the boots off. Its head slumped down, chin resting on its chest. The pale, milky orb of its eye shone like a disco ball in the moonlight. The pristine white ink of the tattoos, illuminated lights on a dark ballroom floor.

_It’s all ‘Disco,’ Baby_.

The detective couldn’t stomach looking at the corpse any longer. He turned away and walked out of the lot.

Even though it was long past midnight the lights in front of the Whirling-in-Rags hotel shone onto the sidewalk in welcome for late night guests. As the detective walked up to the entrance his gaze was drawn to the second floor balcony. He could see the broken window of his hotel room. The shattered glass still hadn’t been cleaned off the balcony floor. The detective felt a sudden swell of shame sink into the pit of his stomach. All of Martinaise could see the result of his drunken escapades as they walked past the hotel. Before he could turn away and head inside, something else on the balcony caught his eye. Just there, almost hidden from view, was the tip of a green snakeskin shoe resting among the glass.


End file.
